Fart Club
by MissButters
Summary: A chubby fist flies into the air. "Rule number one: you do not talk about Fart Club!" Mild-mannered Kyle and his mysterious, chubby associate start a movement to promote juvenile behavior. But things go south fast, and it ain't pretty. R&R!


**I don't know how this fanfiction was born. Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe it was when my friends and I pulled an all-nighter and watched Fight Club and The Terrance and Phillip Show back-to-back. It's rated T because it's South Park and Fight Club. Here it is. **

**In this story, Kyle is a washed-up fourth grader who seeks escape from his mundane existence with the assistance of a certain devious soap salesboy. They find release in an underground "Fart Club," where little boys can be as impolite and rude as the world wishes them not to be. But they soon take a sharp downward spiral into oblivion...**

**Please enjoy!**

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It must have been Tuesday. Mr. Hat was wearing his cornflower blue tie. Garrison was full of pep. As for myself, I hadn't slept in six months. With insomnia, nothing is real. Everything is far away. Everything is a copy of a copy of a copy. Every identical tick of the clock brought me closer to the end of the day and another sleepless night.

Finally, the bell rang. I looked up to see Mr. Garrison sliding a giant stack of papers across my desk. "Kyle, I want you to do an extra few pages on that report analyzing satire in _Pride and Prejudice_. You're in the accelerated reading stream, so we're going to expect more of you. Remember to meet Mr. Mackey before school tomorrow morning."

I hid a yawn, pretending to listen. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, and I won't be able to go with you on the trip to Washington next month. You may have to go by yourself. You look tired, Kyle, is something the matter?"

"Yes, sir." I excuse myself.

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I got home that afternoon and took a moment to glance around the house. It was immaculately neat, and I noticed a few new pieces of furniture. I sighed. I'd been replaced by renovations, and Ike had been replaced by Ikea. I barely recognized my mom any more. She was always perched by the kitchen table, flipping through Pottery Barn catalogues, and wondering what kind of dining set defined her as a person.

I was sick of it. All of it. The clever coffee table in the shape of a yin and yang, the Johanneshov armchair in the Strinne green stripe pattern, the Rislampa wire lamps made of environment-friendly unbleached paper. Even the Vild hall clock made of galvanized steel that rested on the Klipsk shelving unit made me want to vomit.

"Hi, Mom," I said, reaching into the fridge for a snack.

"Hi, Ike, how's Kindergarten?"

I blinked. "Uh, mom?"

"Oh. Sorry, Kyle, I'm just a little busy right now."

I sighed, and looked into the fridge. It was practically empty. I grabbed a jar of gelfite fish and started searching for a spoon to eat it with. The after-school snack of champions. Jewish champions.

I march upstairs, plop my rear end on the bed, and stare at the walls until it's time to go to school the next morning.

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"You can't die of insomnia, mmkay?"

"Maybe I died already," I growled. "Look at my face." My under-eye circles are so big it looks like I'm nursing two black eyes and a broken nose.

"Mmkay, Kyle, you need to lighten up."

"Can't I go to the pharmacist and get something? Like, sleeping pills?"

"You need healthy, natural sleep, mmkay? Chew valerian root and get some more exercise."

"Mr. Mackey, you don't understand. I'm in pain."

"You wanna see pain?" I hear Mr. Garrison scream from the teacher's lounge. "Swing by South Park Methodist Tuesday nights. See the guys with testicular cancer. That's pain."

"Mmkay, thank you, Mr. Garrison." Mr. Mackey looked at me again. "Run along to class, Kyle."

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On Tuesday night, I shuffle into the dimly lit gymnasium of South Park Methodist, listening to courageous, ball-less men like Bob and Thomas and Herbert Garrison share their feelings. Thomas is talking right now. I can hardly bear to listen. His eyes are sunken, his skin is pale, and he's clearly dying.

"I wanted three kids. Two boys and a girl. Mindy wanted two girls and one boy. We never could agree on anything."

He cracked a sad smile. There are chuckles from the audience.

"Well, she had her first child a month ago, a girl, with her new husband. I'm so happy for her. She deserves…"

He broke down and started weeping uncontrollably. All of a sudden, insomnia didn't seem all that bad. They led him back to his chair, and the organizer took the podium.

"Thank you, Thomas, for sharing your feelings. It's time for the one-on-one. Let's follow Tom's example and open ourselves up. Find a partner, everybody."

I turned to leave and was crushed against the girth of an enormous, sobbing man with the biggest moobs I'd ever seen. He threw his arms around me – I could barely breathe – and told me repeatedly how lucky I was to have my whole life ahead of me, and how unfortunate I was to have to go through life a eunuch. I didn't have the heart to correct him. I just patted his stomach and said, "There, there."

"No, go ahead…" he looked down at my nametag. "Cornelius. You can cry."

I'd used the fake name to trick Garrison. He'd fallen for it. Ha, ha, ha. But I wasn't laughing on the inside. Something was welling up in me, and I was trying to dam the ducts. Too late.

Something happened. I was lost in oblivion – dark and silent and complete. Losing all hope meant finding freedom. I cried and cried into Bob's sweaty t-shirt.

That night, I went home and slept like a baby.

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I became addicted to support groups, to group hugs, to crying sessions. They were honestly the only things keeping me asleep at night.

I rediscovered humanity. If I didn't say anything about myself, people assumed the worst. They cried. I cried harder. Every evening I died and every evening I was born again, resurrected. They loved me because they thought I was sick, too. Being there, being hugged by twelve people at once, being ready to cry – that was my vacation.

And she ruined everything.

Her lying nametag didn't hide the truth from me. I recognized Arabella Nosferatu as Bebe Stevens. She was a liar. She did not have testicular cancer.

She had no diseases at all. I had seen her at my melanoma group Monday night, and again at "Free and Clear," my blood parasites group on Thursdays, and then again at "Seize the Day," my tuberculosis Fridays. She was a tourist, but that wasn't what bothered me. Her lie reflected my lie.

Once, at Free and Clear, we had to partner up for the crying session. We didn't open up. We didn't let the tears flow. Suddenly, I felt nothing. I couldn't cry. And as a result, I couldn't sleep.

I swear, next group after guided meditation, after we open our chakras, when it's time to hug, I'm going to grab Bebe, pin her arms against her sides, and call her a liar, a big tourist. I'm going to tell her to get out. I need these support groups.

So I arrive at the church for melanoma night on Monday. I'm a little late. Bebe turns to look at me, and I slip her the finger. She scowls, turning away. I slide into my pew and close my eyes, trying to meditate.

"Now you're standing at the entrance to your cave. You leave your tumor outside the cave. That feels good. You step inside your cave and you walk. Keep walking. Find your innermost peace."

If I had a tumor, I would name it Bebe. Bebe… that little scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you would stop licking it… but you can't. That little crack in the ceiling that leaks drops of water down on your head, the one you swear you'd fix if it were only within reach. That little alien that keeps kidnapping your little brother. Oh, how the mind wanders.

Hug time. Here goes.

I storm down the aisle and shake Bebe's shoulder. "Be… I mean, Arabella, we need to talk."

She squints angrily, but follows me to a dark corner of the chapel.

"I'm on to you," I whisper. "You're a faker. You aren't dying."

"What?"

"Well… you're not dying. You're not dying the way these people are dying. You're a tourist. I've seen you at blood parasites, tuberculosis, and testicular cancer."

"And I've seen you, 'Cornelius.' You're not fooling anyone."

"I'll expose you."

"I'll return the favor."

I groan. "Why are you doing this?"

"It's cheaper than a movie, and there's free food."

"These are my groups. I was here first."

She shakes her head. "Well, why do you do it?"

"I… I don't know. I guess, when people think you're a dying child, they really listen to you."

"Instead of just waiting for their turn to speak? Instead of lording over you all the time?"

"Yeah."

The leader of the group passes us. I fake a hiccup.

"It becomes an addiction," I say. "Look, I just can't… I can't cry with a faker."

She crosses her arms over her thick red sweater. Her face is gradually turning the same angry hue. "So what? Go volunteer at a cancer ward. It's not my problem."

"Tell you what. Let's split up the week. You can have lymphoma, tuberculosis, and…"

"You take tuberculosis."

"Okay. Testicular cancer is mine, no contest."

"Technically, I have more of a right to be there than you," she says, rolling her eyes, "You have balls."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Fine. I'll take the parasites."

"You can't have both parasites. You can take blood parasites."

"I want brain parasites."

People were starting to look at us funny.

"Let's step outside for a second."

We stepped out into the quiet city street.

"Okay. Where were we? Oh, I remember. I'll take blood parasites and organic brain dementia."

"I want that."

"You can't have the whole brain!"

"So far, you have four and I only have two!"

"Fine, Bebe, take blood parasites. It's all yours. Now we each have three."

"Okay, that's six. What about the seventh day? Ooh, can I have ascending bowel cancer?"

"No, I want ascending bowel cancer!"

"But it's my favorite!"

"Fine, we'll split it. You can have the first and third Sunday of every month."

"Deal."

I don't know how many times the traffic light flickers between red and green as we stare each other down angrily on that cold December night. Finally, Bebe breaks the silence.

"Give me your number."

"What?"

"In case we want to switch nights."

"Uh, won't I see you in class?"

"Just give it to me."

I tear a page out of my _Surviving Melanoma_ pamphlet, scrawl down my number, and hand it over. She tears it in half, neatly writes hers, and gives it to me.

"I guess this is goodbye," she says.

"Um," I reply. She flips me off and marches onto a conveniently stopped public bus. I give her the bird just as an mammoth gust of wind sends my hat flying down the street. My mushroom-cloud jewfro billows in the winter air. I watch her roll away. She's laughing at me. She's laughing hard.

It wouldn't be the last time I'd embarrass myself in front of Bebe Stevens.

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I was dog tired. Eleven hours of flight delays will do that to you. I was on my way to Washington to compete in the National Spelling Bee. Due to my lack of a chaperone, and my lack of common sense at three o'clock on a Monday morning, I had managed to take the wrong flight to the wrong city, and, on top of that, taken the wrong connection to freakin' Alaska. Luckily, they said I'd be able to catch a flight from Anchorage to Washington, but I would have to wait eleven hours at the airport.

Finally, I boarded the plane, eager to get some shut-eye. Not sleep – I can't do that, remember? Shut-eye. I'd shut my eyes and pray for sleep. It wouldn't work, but I'd do it anyway. I had a long way to fly.

Unfortunately, fate could not be so kind. My seatmate kept tapping me on the shoulder, kicking at my shins, elbowing me. Finally, my eyes snapped open.

"Just what the heck do you think you're doing?" I demanded of the chubby kid who was seated beside me. Good grief, he was enormous. No wonder he kept jostling me. He should have paid for two seats.

"Hey, did you know that if you dissolve kitty litter in gasoline, you can make napalm?"

I blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"Or if you mix orange juice and... and gasoline. Or if you mix... if you mix Diet Coke and gasoline. Or if you…"

It was going to be a long ride. I sighed.

"Look, dude, I don't care. And quit talking about explosives, or they'll send your fat terrorist butt back to wherever you came from."

"Whatever. Hey, my name's Eric Cartman. What's yours?"

"Kyle Broflovski." _Leave me alone._

"Hey, Kyle Broflovski, do you know why they put oxygen masks on airplanes?"

"To supply oxygen?"

"No, silly, because oxygen gets you high! In a catastrophic emergency, you're taking big panicked breaths, you just take a puff of oxygen and all of a sudden you're calm like a cow chewing dandelions in a meadow. Look!"

He yanked a safety brochure out of his seat pocket. "Emergency water landing at 600 miles per hour, and they're happier than Terrance and Phillip in a Kraft Dinner store."

I can't help it. I start laughing. This kid is incredible.

"So, why are you going to Washington?" he inquires.

"Spelling bee."

"No way! Me too! And… get this… look what I brought."

He tugs out his suitcase and opens it up.

"Soap?" I say, wrinkling my nose at its sickly-sweet smell.

"That's right! I'm going to sell it during my spare time and make ten million dollars. They pay so much for homemade soap. I can make, like, twenty dollars a bar."

"But you've only got, like, fifty bars in there. The spelling bee prize is worth more, anyway."

He laughs. "I can't spell, stupid. I'm gonna sell me some soap and make ten million dollars!"

He pulls a business card out of one of the suitcase's pockets. "_Cartman Family Soap Company,_" it reads, "_For all your hygenie needs_."

"Uh, you misspelled hygiene," I comment.

"Who cares? Hey, did you know that if you add nitric acid to the soap when you're making it, you can get nitroglycerin, and if you made enough soap, you could blow up the world?"

He was out of breath from talking so fast. "Eric, you've got to be the weirdest kid I've ever met."

"Cartman," he said. "You can call me Cartman."

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**What do you think? Does the combination work? Stay tuned for the next installment. Cartman and Kyle will partner up to form a great underground organization, one so consequential I'm not even allowed to talk about it. **

**Leave a review after the beep!**


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